


Signal

by warringroses



Category: The Queen's Gambit (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-13
Updated: 2021-02-08
Packaged: 2021-03-15 16:29:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 19,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28691730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/warringroses/pseuds/warringroses
Summary: The Moscow Invitational is now at a close. Beth has triumphed and yet the pull to return to America so soon, is not as strong as she believed it would be. Missing her flight, upon her return to the hotel... things become complicated.
Relationships: Vasily Borgov & Beth Harmon, Vasily Borgov/Beth Harmon
Comments: 65
Kudos: 105





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi hi! I hope you enjoy! This is my first ever fan fic so apologies if its a little tough to read! But I absolutely love this pairing - they have my heart it seems!  
> You can find me at kaltian on tumblr if any of you are interested! :D

Flakes of white waltz from the heavy deep blue sky as the building of the _дворец москва _creeps into Beth's line of sight.__

__The neon sign, mixed with the melting snow on the ground, renders the wet concrete steps into shimmering reds, a liquid contrast to the solid carpets nearer the door. Bleeding into white pillars and doorways, adorned with crimson curtains either side, peaking behind the glass is the cool, sophisticated, interior. The light glows invitingly against the coming of the night and although all of this could be considered...stale when compared to the elaborate, eccentric fashions and tastes of America, Beth does have to admit that it possesses a certain charm. A beauty, that at first may not be fully appreciated to the eye._ _

____

The dancing of the snowflakes turns rapid and a gust of icy cold wind rushes in the redhead's direction. Drawing her arms to wrap around her chest, she hurries her pace. _The cold in Russia, is definitely something else._ Yet, as she walks along, large stone shapes on the side of the hotel suddenly capture her attention. She had not paid much notice to them when she had first arrived here - too focused on the matches ahead. On the individuals that she will be meeting for the first time...or meeting again. Now, the newly crowned Grandmaster has the time, her mind less focused on _one thing_ and slowing her pace her dark eyes slowly lift, brows furrowing together as she observes.

_______ _ _ _

It appears to be...a stone sculpture of a man and a woman, both looking in the same direction - and mirrored, she notices, on the other side of the entrance. Standing triumphantly, proudly, the woman is placed in front of the man but neither seems to take precedence. Although powerful and unique in their own ways, none dominates. They are distinct...but strangely similar. 

_______ _ _ _

_How did I miss this? ___

_________ _ _ _ _ _

Beth's attention moves back to the blinding neon sign. The _дворец москва _. The Palace Moscow.__

___________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

The name of the hotel hadn't struck a chord with her at first - it is just a name, after all. But now a growing sense of attachment blossoms in her chest. It is almost amusing that she could now be considered, legitimately, a 'Queen of Chess'. Of course, the press and papers had already given her that title years prior. But against the best, Beth, finally, feels deserving. Here, in the Moscow Palace, she is its queen. 

___________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

And the king?

___________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Another gust of ice cold air blows Beth's way, snapping her out of her thoughts. _Perhaps...its time to move._ Bringing her coat more closely about her again, her eyes then fall upon the couples and individuals making their way in or out of the hotel. Not to her surprise, there are only a few as it is growing late. But seeing their smiles, their arms embraced around the other, it fills Beth with a sudden pang of loneliness. She may be queen but at this very moment she has no one. 

___________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

The King, by the nature of the game, an eternal adversary.

___________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Feeling her eyes flutter Beth then presses on, careful not to look at anyone too closely. The sensation she had felt from earlier in the day, playing endless matches of chess with the ordinary folk of this country, suddenly feels hollow. Their hospitality, their friendliness and open arms were no doubt welcome but now, alone in this vast city, the initial ecstasy and feeling of belonging is beginning to wear thin. Townes has left for America. Everyone she cares about is there, waiting for her. And yet....and yet. 

___________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Beth offers a small smile to a couple when they notice her by the stairs. Dipping her head, honoured by the recognition but letting them pass her by all the same, once they are gone the young grandmaster moves inside. She becomes bathed in the red of the neon light, her white clothing shifting in colour. Pushing the door open and entering the reception area, her clothing returns to white. 

___________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Uneasiness runs its unwelcome fingers along her skin as soon as she enters the relative warmth. With the veil of content lifting from her, the reality of her situation begins to seep into the young Grandmaster with every passing second. _I can still stay here, right? Will have I have to find somewhere else? No...of course not. My Visa is still valid. It will be fine'._ Clearing her throat she heads more greatly into the plush place. 

___________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

'Miss Harmon?' A half shocked voice in Russian directs her attention. Nodding in confirmation, silently encouraging the staff member to continue, he does so after a couple of seconds - with a hint of bewilderment on his face. Beth cannot discern whether that is a good thing and she fidgets, in the form of the slight movement of her head to one side. 

___________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

'Mr Booth came by a few hours ago to extend both yours and his stay here. Apparently he could not find you anywhere and he seemed...in distress. If you returned to the hotel, which you now have, he said to go to his room, immediately'. A slight pause. 'I would suggest you go to him'. 

___________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Beth's hands involuntarily ball into fists. 

___________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_Fuck._

___________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

She is all too aware of the absolute admonishing lecture that she is about to receive. _Why did this man just not leave? It would have saved the two of us much pain._ Yet, she can partly understand his position. All those powerful people he will have to talk and explain to. All those meetings that he will have to rearrange. All because of her. Feeling a ghost of a smile hover at her lips, Beth knows she would be lying to say that there wasn't something delightful about it all. 'I'll...get to it' she replies, her voice light and airy in tone. 'Have my belongings been returned to my room?' 

___________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

'They have, Miss Harmon. Enjoy your extended stay'. 

___________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

'Thank you'. Turning on her heel Beth then stops and spins back around. 

___________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_Extended stay..._

___________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

'How long has Mr Booth prolonged our stay for?' 

___________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

The receptionist quickly looks through some papers. 'A... week, Miss Harmon. Your stay with us lasts until the end of this week'.

___________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Beth inclines her head in understanding. The confirmation of an extra seven days is both exciting and dreadful. If Mr Booth dictates everything she can (or can't do, to be more precise) she figures that she will come to wish that she had taken the flight. Biting down on her lip, not wanting to think about that possibility lest it become true, the young Grandmaster takes her hotel card and offers a tight lipped smile of thanks. 

___________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Her sensation of ecstasy has now almost entirely diminished. It continues to dwindle as hypothetical arguments with the man she is about to stand in front of entertain themselves in her mind. The man is no doubt going to berate her and casting her mind back to the rules that he had laid out on the plane journey here, her eyes roll. _Stay in your room or your hotel. Don't answer the phone or door. Don't drink. Keep an eye out for a signal from the Russian players. Especially Vasily Borgov. They may want to talk._ Beth's eyes roll once again and she echoes her earlier words to him. _What would a signal look like?_ Mr Booth is American paranoia at its finest. 

___________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Turning the corner the Grandmaster unexpectedly crashes into something - _someone_ \- she realises with a small amount of horror. With her eyes downcast a pair of smart, black shoes reflect almost harshly against the lights of the ceiling and that horror begins to build. More so, when she realises that her hand is placed on their chest. 'I - I am sorry. ' Beth speaks in Russian, trying to be as clear as possible. 'I didn't see -' she continues with her eyes now lifting to the figure before her. When her gaze finally comes to rest upon their face, the redhead's words cease altogether, her lips falling open in surprise. '...Mr Borgov'. 

___________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Beth's voice is laced with embarrassment and something... undefinable. She had not expected to see him so soon after their match - a couple of years, maybe, at the very least, not a few hours. But continuing to gaze at him, at this man who from almost the very beginning she had chased with the dream of defeating, his presence is not as unwelcome as she had thought it would be. His own lips are parted and a dusting of red colours his cheeks...a brief and rare insight into the real man, she supposes. And Beth finds herself entranced by this - by this tiny glimpse of human emotion. 

_You had smiled at me when I won...will you smile again?_

Breathing a little heavier, it is only in that moment that Beth becomes aware of his right hand on her arm, no doubt to steady them both from the collision. Her eyes flicker to where it is placed upon her and even through her thick coat, she can feel that his hold on her is strong and firm. The young Grandmaster's mind flashes back to their joined hands before and after their match.... how his skin was warm and his touch solid. She blinks rapidly and reopens the space between them. Almost mechanically Borgov returns that hand to his side. 

___________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_Fuck. Goddamnit. Why did it have to be fucking you?_

___________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Only a mere few hours ago did Beth finally believe that she had amounted to something in his eyes. The match in Paris a distant, messy, memory of who she once was. Now, she has head butted the World Champion straight in the chest. Wonderful. 

___________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Glancing to that wide space for a moment, with a start she takes her own hand away from him, noticing that it was still placed upon on his chest. Her skin seems to burn and Beth finds herself half torn between giving him an apologetic expression or not. Fighting to keep her composure neutral, she tries her best to express nothing. This _is_ nothing. Just a simple accident. 

___________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

'Miss Harmon' comes Borgov's reply. It is standard. Pleasant. Deep in that Russian tone of his and as usual perfectly devoid of any indications as to how he is feeling. It takes more energy than Beth could ever have believed to fully return to her gaze to him but when her eyes do come to meet his, his entire expression is just like his voice. His blue eyes are piercing as they look to her, commanding almost automatic respect. His lips are set in a straight line. His skin, pale. _Did I imagine all that just happened?_

___________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

'I thought you were returning to America?'

___________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

The Russian words slice through the silence and Beth finds herself latching onto them, grateful, if for nothing else than to relieve the pressing air around them.

___________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

'Yes, I am. I mean, _I was._ I left the car on the way to the airport' she clarifies. When seeing something like confusion minimally furrow his brows Beth parts her lips, calming her racing mind, and elaborates. 'Mr Booth was talking too much about meetings, what to say to important people, how the whole match should be...a victory'. Making sure that she pointedly looks to Borgov more intensely when she says this, not wanting to be too direct about the overhanging rivalries of their countries, the solemn look on the Russian's face makes it evident that he has understood. 'So...I decided that I had had enough. I left the car and stumbled across some people in the city to play chess with. I missed my flight because I enjoyed playing with them'. By now Beth has relaxed a little and feeling a smile come to her lips, she tilts her head to one side slightly, her eyes sparkling softly. 'Some were more difficult than the match I had with you'. 

___________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

The World's Champion's expressions remain characteristically stoic. At first, this lack had riled Beth. The lack of emotion had wormed itself under her skin., making her feel as though she wasn't important or good enough to be noticed. But now, she takes the expression much more lightly. Borgov is digesting and processing her words. Thinking about what to say before he opens his mouth. It is something that the young Grandmaster did not realise she would come to value so much until recently. Akin to the moves he makes in his matches, every single word means something. From also replaying their games endlessly in her mind, Beth has learnt to read him well enough to recognise the slight tug of his lips, the slight shimmering of light in his eyes. Beth's own eyes flutter as she stares. _Are you amused, Mr Borgov?_

___________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

'I cannot imagine that Mr Booth approved'. 

___________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Beth lets out a breath, nodding her head. Although the government agent does not know what she has been doing this afternoon, just yet, there is a very slim chance to none at all that he will find it favourable. Right at this moment he is most likely prowling in his room, busy talking to officials back in America. Busy with perfecting his chastisement. There is nothing more Beth wants than to avoid him, avoid _that,_ for as long as she can. After all, there are still a few rules of Mr Booth' that she hasn't broken yet. Why not break them all. 

___________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

'Can I buy you a drink, Mr Borgov?' The American agent will most likely have her head for this - consorting with the enemy!? With the very man that he had singled out not to talk to _and_ of all things, to drink with!? But the young Grandmaster doesn't show any weakness as her eyes set on Borgov's. As per her nature at a chessboard, Beth is strong from the start and she watches as the Russian blinks, as though surprised at her offer. As soon as this expression graces his features it fades away almost as quickly and the two of them are once again stood alone in silence. It's almost as though he wants her to say something... something more. 

Beth doesn't allow herself the liberty to over analyse or think about anything too greatly. Not even when Borgov blinks a second time, a darker expression clouding his features. _Is he worried about KGB agents?_ Her muscles tense at the thought and beside herself, she sweeps her eyes around their immediate surroundings. There is nothing. No one. Beth has seen no agents round Borgov for the entirety of the day... so why this nervousness as he slowly slips his hands into his jacket pockets? As a muscle feathers in his jaw? 

___________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

'A drink?' he says carefully. 

___________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

' _A_ drink' Beth echoes, her head nodding to exaggerate her sincerity. 

___________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

No doubt he is thinking about her... _affinity_ for alcohol and she represses a grimace. _Its not like that anymore..._

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

'Then you may'. It is Borgov's turn to nod and although Beth had been hoping for this answer the reality of it is as equally daunting as it is exciting. This man is still the current World Champion. She may have beaten him today but he remains a formidable opponent...and as Mr Booth won't let her forget, he is a Soviet. But if her time in the city has taught her anything, it is that love, even for such things as chess, transcend all. This love, this passion for the game, they both have in common and surely, none would take advantage of the other because of it? None would end up dominating, taking precedence, for their own ends? 

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

'Perfect' Beth says, holding his gaze. Swaying her body to briefly look behind her so that she can remember the way to the restaurant a humming sounds Borgov's agreement. Bringing her attention back to him, yet again the young Grandmaster thought he was going to say something, or that he was waiting for her for continue. When nothing passes along either of their tongues, instead, he smiles faintly.

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you made it this far, thank you so much and I hope you enjoyed! :D  
> YES. I may have stared at the hotel in the show FAR too much to get those initial descriptions of it. But what can I say!? I love to analyse and pick out the DEETS c;  
> I'll try to get the next chapter up soon, my writing brain unfortunately is not going brrr the moment ha ha!


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Beth and Borgov head to the restaurant to share a drink.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, I want to wholeheartedly thank all of you who commented and left kudos on the first chapter! I am blown away and flattered by your lovely words and encouragement - thank you so very much! 
> 
> A slight disclaimer for the rest of the chapter - I have taken some artistic liberties, although I have tried to keep it as historically accurate as I can. But all will explained in the notes at the end of the chapter!
> 
> I hope you enjoy! This chapter is slightly longer than I had first anticipated, but nevertheless, happy reading!
> 
> Again! If you ever want to chat you can find me at kaltian on tumblr! :D

The two Grandmasters walk side by side, in a palpable silence. One dressed in black, the other white, their footsteps are cushioned as they pass over the plush red carpet, running from one side of the corridor to the other. 

Borgov stares straight ahead, his icy blue eyes focused before him in that usual composed gait of his. Beth attempts to mirror him, to achieve that almost effortless calm and confidence that he possesses. But her head moves from side to side every few seconds in the bid to alleviate the tense muscles in her neck. Perhaps it is from a day of craning her head, looking down at a chessboard, which is finally catching up to her. Whatever it is, the redhead wills the uncomfortableness away with another slow movement, her eyes inexplicably drifting to the man besides her as she does - only this time, he is not looking ahead...but at her.

A breath hitches itself in her throat as deep brown meets piercing blue. Her mind, perplexingly and foreignly, becomes empty and she gazes to an indescribable look on his face which both darkens and lightens his features. It is something that Beth cannot quite place but simultaneously knows holds meaning and weight. But what, exactly? What is the meaning? Does she dare give herself the liberty to think? Nevertheless, Beth finds herself utterly hypnotised by him. No matter how much she tries to look away, she is totally unable. 

Only when they turn round the corner and once again move into the reception area does their attention fade from the other. Borgov returns to staring straight ahead of himself and she notices the quick movement of his eyes to the receptionist at the desk. With a pen in hand, the staff member is focused on the papers piled neatly before him but when the two of them pass him by, Beth swears that he is watching their every move. Peering discreetly over her shoulder, the young Grandmaster's silent queries are proven correct. For the fraction of a second her eyes meet with the receptionist's and caught, he lowers them, as though nothing had happened. _Alright then...._

Stealing a glance at Borgov he seems unperturbed. Is this what being tailed by KGB agents eventually forms? An almost expectant attitude? Or is this the kind of attention that two Grandmasters, walking side by side generates? If it is the latter...there is something oddly satisfying about it that instils Beth with pride, making her want to hold her head high. This is the kind of recognition that she craves and stood by Borgov it makes her selfishly wonder how many heads they could turn, if they stood side by side in a place far more populated than tonight. The power the two of them would hold floods Beth with satisfaction. Together, they would be the ultimate rulers of Chess. But as her eyes fall from him, she gently chews on her bottom lip. _What if this is a mistake? Could I be getting him into trouble?_ With a singular blink she pushes that thought aside. _We are doing nothing wrong. We have nothing to hide. We are just two Grandmasters, on their way to share a drink. Is that so terrible?_

With the receptionist now far behind them they finally make it to the restaurant and Beth's breath catches in her throat, this time for an entirely different reason. The crystal chandeliers shine like a scattering of diamonds from the ceiling, casting tiny rainbows upon the floor and tables. The lofty windows to the left open to a night time scene of Moscow, the Moscva river sparkling in its languid movement. Just beyond the water, St Basil's Cathedral marks the skyline in a myriad of astounding colours; swirling whites, greens, blues and reds that make the whole place feel like something from a fairy tale for the young American. She has been to this restaurant many times during her stay here...but never in the evening. Now, it seems to take on an incredibly different and perhaps even more beautiful atmosphere. She is quite simply, transfixed. 

Only when Borgov begins to move a little does Beth snap out of the trance she has found herself in. Casting a glance his way, a smile plays vaguely on his lips. It makes the young Grandmaster want to curl up from shame - and not for the first time tonight. _Was I that obvious?_

'What can I get you, Mr Borgov?' She asks this both in the attempt to know what to buy but also to get her awe out of his mind. Beth hopes it works. 

'I don't normally drink, Miss Harmon' his eyes are set purposefully upon her as he says this. 'But a glass of _Sovetskoye Shampanskoye,_ will be just fine'. 

_Sovetskoye Shampanskoye - Soviet Champagne._ The young Grandmaster has to admit that she has never before heard of this beverage and its name threatens an amused smile to upturn the corner of her lips. _That is one way to remind yourself that you are in a Soviet country._ But nodding her head, her eyes gently rest on the barman and the bottles around him before sliding back to Borgov. His head has now tilted to one side slightly, as though he had followed the movements of her eyes. The minimal change in his otherwise straight posture makes her tense. 

'What about yourself?' he asks, his tone of voice careful. 

Beth blinks rapidly, the fear of being childish flushing her face with red. _Is he worried I will order something too strong?_ Rolling her shoulders, she forces her facial expressions to remain light. For him, for this moment, she promises herself that she will not fall victim to the intoxicating embrace. She has had all she needs, from her win. 

'I think I will have the _Sovetskoye Shampanskoye,_ too. In Russia, do as the Russians do' she quips. 

'Very good'. Nodding his head, that faint smile returns to his lips. It does not last for long and with the blink of an eye his face is once again neutral. 'I shall wait for you at one of the tables, Miss Harmon'. 

'Of course'. Sending a light smile his way, her gaze remains on his face for longer than she had intended. Yet, because of this Beth notices that his attention wavers to the barman at the far end of the room, his expression guarded. Almost as soon as Beth moves however, Borgov's light eyes turn to choosing a table (not a particularly difficult job since there is no one but themselves) and she pushes the expression to the back of her mind. Most likely, he is tired. 

The barman however, in his fitted light brown suit, offers the redhead a smile as she approaches. One, that does not quite meet his eyes. In a quick movement, like Borgov's, his attention flickers over her shoulder and to who she can only deduct, the World Champion. Clearing her throat, it seems to take a second longer than what could be considered polite for his attention to move back to her. Yet, Beth makes nothing of it. Most likely, as it has been for her, the day has been busy. 

'What will it be, Miss?' The bartender's words are crisp, faintly accented by his native Russian tongue, she presumes, but otherwise spoken perfectly in English. Her face lights up with appraisal. 

'Your English is excellent, Sir! How did you learn it?' Her own experience with learning the Russian language had at times been almost excruciating. First with the challenges of learning a whole new alphabet and then the grammar and pronunciation. Even now, there are a few things that allude her but quickly coming to realise that with her exclamation she had completely ignored his question, Beth lowers her eyes in an apology, letting her times of study drift from her mind. Looking back to him she answers his question softly. 'It will be two glasses of _Sovetskoye Shampanskoye'_. 

That smile that had not quite met his eyes, widens. At what exactly, the compliment or the order, the redhead cannot be sure but he soon moves to completing what she had asked and his lips gradually set back into a line.

'I thank you for the compliment, Miss. I learnt many languages at university - this job requires me to be fluent in most'. Placing the bottle of champagne on the counter his eyes remain there as he says 'I hear that your Russian is excellent' .

Beth cannot help but grin at this. She has worked hard to become proficient at this language and to hear it from someone whose native tongue it is, fills her with a bubbling joy. 'I...thank you as well, Sir. I am glad to find that I left no one confused'.

The barman's eyes fix on her. 'I shall bring you your drinks in just a moment. Please feel free to move to your table, to Mr Borgov'. His eyes look in the man's direction for a moment, purposefully, before sliding back to Beth. They stay there and the young Grandmaster tenses involuntarily. Taking that as her queue to leave him to his job, Beth pulls herself away from the bar, uttering a small word of thanks. 

As she walks away from him, with the gentle sweep of her eyes it does not take her long to find the man that she had asked for a drink. The World Champion is sat near the large glass windows, gazing out to the Moscva River with an expression of thought. His surprisingly elegant hand is placed delicately but with firmness by the side of his face and in the warm lights of the night, his eyes glitter softly. Borgov's whole body seems...less sharp and angular in this moment and a wave of something that she cannot quite place rushes over her, causing her lips to fall open as she continues to approach him. Her mind flickers back to when she had finished one of her matches before him and how he had stood to observe her chessboard when he believed her to be gone. The movement of his fingers, under his nose, over his lips, had captivated her. More so, because she knows that she herself was the cause. Bringing herself back to the present, her eyes linger on those slender hands once again. 

Willing herself to calm, Beth lightly trails her own fingers along the top of the chair before she sits opposite him. This appears to bring his focus to her and sitting herself down the redhead becomes acutely aware of his attention, even as she keeps her eyes from him. It is so strange to be in this setting. With no chess board before them... no distraction. With her heart still fluttering in her chest she momentarily finds such a distraction by taking off her hat and placing it on the far edge of the table, next to a newspaper. With nothing left to do she forces her gaze to land on Borgov and brown reconnects with blue. 

A silence, as palpable and pressing as before, wraps around them. A silence that Beth believes is going to become a common occurrence between the two of them. It is more... awkward, this time. Talking has never really been her strong point and she is starting to feel the repercussions of that lack. She doesn't want to appear foolish before him, as though her victory against him will only be an one time scenario. Her eyes flutter from him and to the table behind, as her mind attempts to find something notable to say. 

Not surprisingly, Borgov beats her to it and his words are coated with a tone which is factual and yet strangely soft. 'How does it feel to be a Grandmaster, Miss Harmon? You have made it' he finishes, blinking slowly. 

Wonder lights up Beth's face as to how she can put her emotions into words. This win had meant _everything._ It means everything. Finally, she feels comfortable in this world of chess. Worthy to hold her head high. Yet, it is not lost on her that she had won in Borgov's country, his territory, in front of his supporters. She knows that she cannot be arrogant but she won't let that bar her from the truth - not when for so long the man sat opposite her has been her driving force to get better. To improve. To become the very best there is. 

'It feels... _good'_ she says, for the lack of a better word but in this moment, there is nothing that seems more suitable. _Good_ encompasses all that she had felt. What she is feeling now. And as she breathes this word and it slides over her tongue Borgov's cheeks warm, his hand tightening on his a face a little. But so lost in the sensation of how she herself is feeling, Beth misses this glimpse to a very human side of him, entirely. Instead, she thinks about how when those people who had come to watch the match stood on their feet for her and clapped and smiled it felt just that - good. When Borgov, the very man before her, offered her his king, took her hand and hugged her close...how that feeling intensified, making her feel almost whole. Few things in her life have ever been that. Through hardships and trials there seemed to be more moments of pain and agony and loneliness. When she won, all of that had changed. In the strange warmth of the room, in the warmth of his arms, everything had been good. 

'How did it feel for you?' Beth asks, returning the question to him and only now does she register the slight redness upon his face. She shifts in her seat. 'When you became a Grandmaster, how was it for you?'

Those fingers that are placed at the side of his face move along his jaw and fall to join his other hand on the table. Pensivness and perhaps the tracing of amusement crafts his features as a brow raises subtly. 'You ask that of a man who is growing old?'

It is Beth's turn for her hands to fall to the table and narrowing her eyes in retort, she tuts her tongue. 'You are _thirty seven,_ Mr Borgov. What makes you think that's old?' She leans a little closer to him, her wide eyes sparkling in the light of the chandeliers. 'I know you haven't forgotten that day. No matter how old you _think_ you are'. 

The side of his lips tug, an amused breath passing through them. 'It has been _many_ years since I became a Grandmaster, Miss Harmon. I have played many matches, since'. He pauses for a moment and Beth can tell that he is forming the most correct string of words. 'You are right, I have not forgotten how it was.' His brows crease together as though he is reliving that memory. 'The day I became a Grandmaster is not one I am likely to forget; anticipation, excitement and sickening nerves before the match. Exhilaration, exhaustion and hunger afterwards. There was one last thing remaining'. His words cease but Beth knows what he is insinuating. The title of World Champion. 

Beth finds herself drawn to every word that passes from him. She is honestly slightly shocked to find that such a man as he could ever feel something remotely close to _nerves_ \- being the man of ice he projects. But hearing it from him, seeing how his face warms at the memory, she cannot help but believe him.

'Do you feel it too?' Borgov asks, with his tone of voice low. 'That hunger?' 

The young Grandmaster's lips part open. 

'Your drinks, Sir and Miss'. 

Sitting back in the chair, bringing her hands with her, Beth looks to the barman with a careful expression as he places the glasses upon the table. _God, he is quiet._ The young Grandmaster finds herself unable to talk, from whatever had formed between herself and Borgov the sharp severing of it has left her breathless. So, she merely smiles her thanks as Borgov verbalises it. It takes another second than what could be considered usual for the barman to leave.

With the glasses now on the table, its contents bubbling and fizzing, Beth suddenly finds the space a little too cluttered for her liking. Reaching to move her hat onto the chair next to her she lifts it from the table and her attention snags on the picture of a man and woman, in their early twenties she presumes. They are both dressed in white and Beth can only imagine that their lavishly embroidered costumes must be laced with the most lovely of gold and silver threads. The woman is positioned in an arabesque, her face looking out to the audience with a blinding smile upon her face. The man stands behind her, supporting her and looking to her with such vivid expression upon his face, such theatricality, that Beth's hand hovers above the newspaper. Borgov notices. 

'Merle Parke and Rudolf Nureyev'. His voice particularly emphasises the latter. 'He was a soloist of the Kirov Ballet - famed for his theatricality and intuition. He was one of Russia's finest'.

'Was?' Beth echoes, looking briefly in his direction as she pulls the newspaper closer to her. 

'1961, the Kirov ballet were touring in Paris. The Company were flying to London when he... defected'. A muscle feathers along his jawline. 'Moscow wanted him back and he rebelled, indefinitely'.

 _Paris._ The city conjures more unwelcome memories than she would like to admit. Keeping her facial expressions as guarded as she can the American looks back to Borgov, entirely, and comes to feel the pressing sensation of his whole attention upon her. Beth cannot discern whether he is happy about what this had man done or not. Whether he feels resentment or nothing at all about Russia losing one of their greats to the West. But, Beth does know that the World Champion's eyes on her are intense and piercing as they stare into her own and swallowing lightly, Beth places the hat on the spare chair next to her.

'Moscow wanted him back?' Her words are full of caution. It feels as though this is something they shouldn't be talking about but Borgov's expression, as ever, remains impassive. As though all of this is nothing of note. 

'Nureyev, although immensely talented, had a terrible attitude. In Paris, that attitude released itself, far more than it ever had before. He became even more difficult to control. Not only for the Ballet Company but for those tasked with looking over all of them'. A sigh passes through his lips. 'Nureyev would make friends with the French, try to adopt their customs, continually push the boundaries of what was tolerated and respectable. There was even one night where he attended a Ballet with a French girl. They sat in a box reserved for the Soviets and the whole auditorium stopped and turned to stare - no Soviet had ever been that brash, so Western, before.' That sigh that had passed through his lips for a moment ends with the softest of smiles. He quickly removes it. 'During one of his performances in Paris, Nureyev fell. With the simplest gesture of his hands, he commanded the orchestra to stop playing. They did and then he left the stage.' 

When Borgov pauses, Beth can imagine so very clearly the entire audience and musicians falling silent; out of horror at his fall mixed with the anticipation of how or if he is going to come back from this. It rather selfishly reminds her of how the entire room had fallen silent when she had arrived to their final match in Paris and with how her few words of 'I resign' she too had left the stage. An ache opens in her chest. She knows what it is like to fall. What it is like to leave and walk away. But then, Borgov continues.

'When he returned to the stage, Nureyev was a dancer reborn. No one had seen anyone move the way he did that night. His moves, his passion, his ability to fight was unprecedented'. 

Beth's lashes flutter at the turn of events and once again, she selfishly draws parallels between herself and this Ballet dancer. She had returned to the stage in Moscow and played like she never had before. Like no one had ever seen before and the warmth spreading through her body warmly graces her lips .

'But...one can grow too big. With his proclivity for pushing the boundaries, his...love life, the general way he conducted himself the fame he accumulated was tainted. That is why Moscow recalled him.'

 _To keep him on leash_ , Beth adds mentally. Curling his hands together, Borgov once again stops for a moment. She takes this opportunity to ask a question which is burning at the tip of her tongue. 

'Love life?' she queries. 

Surprisingly, Borgov answers this question with relative ease. Although, his eyes do move from her to begin with. 'Nureyev...finds pleasure with both women and men'. He blinks once. 'Here in Russia, deep passion for someone of the same gender is a seven year sentence'. 

_Seven years. Just for love._ A breath expels from her, showing her shock. That expelled breath also carries a certain amount of trepidation. That night she had spent with Cleo, the attraction that she had felt towards her, could that ever be held against her here? Has Borgov already connected the dots? Her hand creeps towards the glass. 

'Yuri Soloviev has taken Nureyev's place as a soloist. The latter is now a guest artist at the Royal Ballet in London, as you have seen.' His eyes drift to the image of the pair. ' _White Crow,_ the Soviets call him'. His head inclines to the paper a bit more and to the words in bold. 'It has been his nickname since his childhood. Now, it is used much more frequently'. 

Beth's eyes wander back to the picture shortly after Borgov's attention had also moved there and this time she looks upon the male dancer with more interest - especially when noting with more severity on how he is dressed in white. She is perfectly aware of what _White Crow, Belaya Vorona_ insinuates in Russia. The idiom is directed to people who do not fit in. Who are different and push against the normalcies of society. Suddenly her own white clothing, her own sexuality, feels pressing and heavy. The way she plays chess, with passion and intuition, under scrutiny. _Is he trying to make a point about me?_ She swallows again. _Perhaps asking him for a drink wasn't the best idea._

'So... the Kirov Ballet champions Soloviev now? Now that Nureyev is gone?'

'Correct. He has always been a rival of Nureyev. Soloviev is famed for his technical ability. He is able to soar in his jumps and leaps - so much so that some compare him to Yuri Gargarin'. An amused smile twitches on his lips, the link between Ballet and space, comical, in a way. 'He possesses a far greater technical prowess than Nureyev ever could and Soloviev was patient, wanting to achieve the position of soloist when he was ready. He didn't viciously, almost obsessively, pursue it. Not like Nureyev'. His hands entwined with the other, flex for a moment. 'I suppose, its possible that Soloviev had grown tired of Nureyev having so much of the limelight' his fingers, interlaced, flex again. 

'Do you not think it curious that in London Nureyev could have reached the same amount of fame he has now but with the Kirov Company? If Moscow hadn't recalled him?' Borgov's light eyes hold her own. 'Nureyev's opportunity and fame was passed to Soloviev as a result of this. Either way, defection or returning to Russia, Soloviev achieved the upper hand. I do not think it would be too outrageous to think that ...he may have had some part in Nureyev's recall and then in his downfall - for a while'. The World Champion pauses, as though debating whether to continue. 'Nureyev's defection was not pleasant, at first' he eventually says. 'He was trapped inside - forbidden to the leave the house lest agents found him. He did not dance, he did not do what he was born to do and Soloviev grew all the more famous'. Borgov slows his words, his eyes becoming piercing, almost blindingly so, as he the weight of his attention lands upon her. 'And to think, this all happened in Paris'.

Their conversation, now feels even more taboo than before. If anyone heard could Borgov be held accountable for what he had said? Shifting in her seat a little, her eyes drop to the table as she rapidly thinks of something to say. The constant mention of Paris, reminding her of that match, is not something she wants to think about in this moment and Beth quickly comes to feel that the sooner this topic of conversation is over, the better it may be for the both of them. _Why is he bringing all this up in the first place? Does he think I'm uncultured? Does he think I'm unruly like Nureyev? Whilst he is a Soloviev? I also didn't realise that you could talk so much..._

'How do you know all of this?' Beth queries, her thin brows furrowing slightly.

For a second, the Russian says nothing. But then, one corner of his lips upturn. 'I may not be the best at speaking languages, Miss Harmon. But I can read them fairly well. Traveling abroad opens you to all sorts of information. This' his eyes mark the image in the newspaper 'just happens to be one that I am particularly interested in. I was in Paris, competing, when all this happened. How could I not follow his story? '. 

Beth's eyes flutter at that, imagining what it must have been like, felt like, to have heard of a defection whilst you are in the very same city. At the very same time. A forbidden question begins to form itself but she quickly discards it. That question, most definitely, would be too taboo. So the redhead more carefully asks 'In your opinion, who is the greater dancer?' When her question falls silent, she hopes that this will the last question along this line. 

There is no hesitation from Borgov. His response comes quickly, naturally. 'Rudolf Nureyev'. His icy blue eyes flicker behind her again. '' Most certainly' he emphasises which serves to catch Beth off guard. Her lips part again as she becomes stuck in his powerful gaze and after a few moments of complete quiet the World Champion asks 'Have you ever been to a Ballet before, Miss Harmon?'

With her delicate fingers wrapped around the stem of the glass, to centre and steady herself, she is still not sure if he is trying to insinuate something about her. Beth briefly entertains the idea of not answering him but figuring that might be rude, she shakes her head, having to hide her surprise as she does. She had not expected Borgov to choose Nureyev over Soloviev. Intuition over technique. 'No, never'.

' _Spartak - Spartacus_ is currently being performed by the Bolshoi Ballet Company. Vladimir Vasiliev, Māris Liepa and Ekaterina Maximova, the giants of Ballet in Russia, are playing the leading roles'. He stops speaking for a moment, as though considering his words before continuing. 'King Spartacus, the King of Thrace, is said to be quite a striking character' he pauses again, looking to her with renewed weight. As if, once again, waiting for her to say something. When Beth says nothing he continues a little more gravely. 'Would you like to go?'

A light breath escapes her lips. Possible, previous insinuations are now far from her mind. 

_No one has ever asked me such a thing..._

'I would like that' she replies, trying to keep her eagerness in check. The chance to see the best in the Ballet world is not an opportunity one comes across everyday. Feeling her excitement grow, despite her previous willingness to keep herself in check, her eyes sparkle. 'When? When would we see it?' Beth asks, leaning a little closer to him again. 

'Tomorrow?' he proposes, curling his hand round the stem of the glass. His ring catches the light as his fingers settle there, glaringly bright, and Beth retracts. 

_How stupid am I to forget them..._

'I... I didn't see your family at the match yesterday' she says carefully, looking away from him for the fraction of a second. 'Or at any of the matches, now thinking about it'. Her focus returns to him. 'Are they alright, Mr Borgov?'

''Yes' he responds curtly. 'My wife and Nikolai returned to our home in Leningrad. My wife knew that some of my matches would be late and I have no trouble not understanding anyone here'. There is a strange look of wariness that creeps onto his face at this change of subject and Beth follows the movement of the glass to his lips. Her eyes flutter and she looks to his eyes instead. 

'When will you return to Leningrad?'

'In a few days, most likely'. His voice becomes noticeably more strained and the glass returns to the table. 'I have some business to attend'. 

Swallowing lightly, fighting away a sudden drowning feeling that overcomes her, Beth forces herself to smile. It is so easy to forget the marital status of this man. More so, when it just the two of them and there is nothing but their intellect going head to head. She closes her eyes and presses on. 

'So...Nikolai? That's the name of your son?'

'After my wife's father'. 

She nods, pressing her lips together. She recalls seeing the boy a couple of times - already the spitting image of his father. 'How old...is he?' Her eyes flutter in frustration at her lack of clarity. 'Your son, I mean'.

'Almost eleven now. He admires you, greatly'. 

Another breath escapes her lips and she forces them into a smile. 'I am...flattered. He seems like a good kid'. Beth is honest here and she hopes her voice is able to carry this truthfulness across to him. 

'He is' he responds with affection prominently lacing his voice. 

Beth's fingers subconsciously tap the side of the glass. Another long stretch of silence then stretches between them. The golden ring on Borgov's finger continues to glint in the light every once in a while, catching Beth's attention more often than she would like to admit. So much so, that she completely misses how the Russian's gaze continues to flicker behind her. 

'I did not get the chance to verbally congratulate you on your win, Miss Harmon' he says eventually, slicing through the silence. 'Let me do that now'. Raising the hand which holds the glass he moves it half way across the table and the slightest of smiles pulls at his lips. 'To your victory'. With an almost expectant look on his face, Beth then smiles and lifts her own glass, gently tapping it against his. She finds it best to say nothing and so moving the glass to her mouth when he does, she takes a small sip. 

Sweet and bubbly, the alcohol pops in her mouth. Quite honestly taken off guard, Beth cannot help but feel joy rush through her as she smiles widely. 'This is... _Oh my god_ '. A laugh breaks from her. 'I was not expecting _this!_ This is _amazing '._

'More amazing than your recent triumph?' A brow raises subtly. 

'Maybe not _that_ amazing' she replies, keeping that wide smile. 'But definitely close'. Taking another sip, silently grateful for the more relaxed atmosphere between the two of them now, her eyes drift to the midnight black river to the right of her. It is so stunningly beautiful. The whole of Moscow is there, literally just within her reach, waiting for her. Why waste precious opportunities that she may never be able to experience for _years_ to come? Can she really afford to let them pass her by? All it is is one Grandmaster spending time with another. Nothing more. Nothing less. Again, where is the harm? Placing the glass back on the table, Beth takes a breath. 'I will go with you to the Ballet tomorrow, Mr Borgov.' His own glass stops on the way to way to his lips and she continues. 'What time would we need to be ready?'

'It begins in the evening, at eight. Lets meet at ten minutes past seven. That way we should have at least twenty minutes to spare by the time we get to the Bolshoi Theatre - plenty of time'. 

'Where should I meet you? Outside my room?' she suggests.

'No'. That singular word is firm and it takes Beth by surprise, almost threatening to pierce her heart. _Is he offended by that?_ Her eyes pull towards that band around his finger and Borgov does not give her the time to think on his response too much as he soon proposes an alternative. 'Just outside the hotel on the Sofiyskaya Embankment should be fine'. 

'Alright, sure' she responds, taking another gentle sip of the _Sovetskoye Shampanskoye._ Beth shouldn't, she knows this, but she can feel something forbidden blossoming within her chest. Something that she knows must be nipped in the bud. But...Beth fears that it has already spread throughout her. It has already found itself in her very being, making an instrument of her heart and breath. And where that will take her...she is almost afraid to find out. 

For yet another period of undeterminable amount of time, the two Grandmasters find themselves, once again, in silence. The champagne is delightful, nudging that dormant need within her but whenever she feels it growing too strong, too tempting, one look at Borgov calms her. Keeps her composed and grounded. She doesn't tell him but Beth is thankful for it, perhaps more than he will ever know. 

Once they have both finished the contents of their glasses, Beth leaves the money on the table (it was much cheaper than she realised) and the two of them rise to their feet. With her fluffy white hat in her hands, she finds her fingers fidgeting on the fabric as Borgov stands tall, indifferently. 

'Thank you for tonight, Mr Borgov. I really have enjoyed this'.

'As have I' he replies, with the slight bow of his head. 

With her lips parted, the redhead is unsure on what to say or do. _Do I simply leave? Do I shake his hand? No of course not. We're not at a match!_ 'Until tomorrow, then' she says softly, giving him one last smile. Keeping it upon her lips as she passes him by almost as soon as she passes his shoulder, his voice sounds from behind her. 

'Let me accompany you to your floor'. 

The young Grandmaster freezes on the spot. Her breath taken away from her lungs. There is nothing heated or wanting in the way he had said it but it fills her mind with, although impossible, future scenarios that she almost wishes were possibilities. Shocked, that she had thought these and very glad that her back is still facing him as her cheeks redden, when her composure is slightly more presentable she slowly turns round to face him. There is such a sofness on his face, such a soft sparkle in his eyes, that even if she had wanted to, she never could have refused him.

Nodding her head in acceptance, Borgov then moves to her side and the two of them leave the restaurant together. Falling into a slow, comfortable, rhythm. 

The only newspaper in the place, remains open on the table.

~

The doors of the elevator close with a swoosh, shutting only the two of them inside. They both stand apart, like anchored boats and both keep their eyes focused on the door before them. Their breaths and slight rustling of clothing when one moves are the only sounds outside the hum of the machinery and Beth fights against the temptation to move closer to him. She can smell his cologne at this proximity. It fills the small space, delightfully. With alcohol now coursing through her, the space feels warm, getting warmer by the second and Beth clears her throat. She must say something, anything, before she does something she regrets. 

'Can I ask you a personal question, Mr Borgov?'

'It depends on the question' he responds flatly. 

Shooting him an exasperated look as if to say 'where is that fearless chess player now?' she then speaks her mind, hoping to rid herself of something that has been niggling her. 'Why did you offer me a draw? Out of all the games of yours that I have studied, you have never asked _anyone_ for one. So... why?' Turning her face to look at him, she tries to make her voice as light and polite as possible. 'Did you know that your defeat was inevitable by then and you thought I would take pity on you? Or that I would become intimidated by your pawns?' Towards the end of this sentence, her words are more teasing in nature but wanting a truthful answer from him, she goes about doing so respectfully. 

At that, the Russian's head also turns to look at her. She can see him visibly thinking, not rising to her teasing, and warring perhaps, on how to answer her. Yet, nothing could have prepared her.

'Why did you not accept?' 

The young Grandmaster blinks, taken off guard, as though the answer to such a thing should be obvious. _I was going to win... why would I?_ ' Not wanting to be cutting however, she turns the question back on him, in this familiar dance of tug and pull.' Would you have accepted? If I had been the one to ask?' 

The side of his lip pulls and he sighs. Both of them think about Paris. How ruthless but fair he had been when Beth made that one, singular, move which cemented her defeat. He had never shown her mercy. He had always punished her for her mistakes. Beth was just repaying the favour - having learnt her lesson from the best. 

'I suppose I wouldn't have'. 

'So... why?' she asks again.

Watching him as he brings his hands behind his back, that visible warring from earlier again presents itself. It's as though whatever he is about to say will greatly pain him and her mind shoots back to the moment when he announced he wanted to adjourn. Borgov was unable to look at her. At every possible moment he avoided even glancing in her direction. There seemed to be such panic, such confusion upon his face. It was the most animated that Beth had ever seen him at a chess board, she realises with a start. What had brought that out in him? The fear of finally being beaten? 

'I -' 

As soon the World Champion starts speaking the doors of the elevator slide open. Borgov shuts his mouth firmly, as though regretting even beginning to answer her. Beth's eyes flutter in frustration but there is nothing she can do. She cannot press further.

Lifting an arm, akin to when she had won her match, Borgov let's her leave before then following her out. His mouth is pressed into a sharp, thin, line. Regretful. 

As Beth leaves the small space she swears that she will get that answer from him before her week is finished. He was so close to telling her. The young Grandmaster will succeed next time. She vows it. 

Her lips upturn gently, as different as can be from Borgov's, when her eyes come to rest on a middle aged woman. _'Dobriy vecher - good evening _'. The American says this with softness and warmth, recalling that this woman has been charming to her these past few days, always offering a matching smile. This time it could not be more opposite. Her lips are edged, minimally, upwards and her attention moves from Beth to Borgov, and then back to the Beth - almost with an accusative gleam. When reaching and stopping a respectable distance from her and still observing that expression upon her face, the redhead soon finds herself looking upon the World Champion. His posture, is immaculate. He inclines his head similarly.__

____

'Miss Harmon, Mr Borgov' she eventually greets, her eyes snagging on the latter. 'Your hotel pass and passport, Miss'. 

____

Sliding both from her pockets Beth hands them over to her and once verified, both are returned along with the keys to her room. 'Don't lose them, my dear. Those are the only ones'. The woman's eyes then slide back to the Russian and a colder expression shimmers within them. 'This is not your floor'. 

____

'I am aware of that, _Dezhurnaya'_. His voice is cool, solid, and polite and it appears as though she is waiting for some kind of explanation. Borgov gives none and does not give the woman any further attention as he turns his focus to Beth. His movements as he does so are noticeably stiff.

The young Grandmaster observes all of this and her brows furrow, perplexed and confused. The woman had never acted like this before and she cannot help but draw parallels to the receptionist downstairs. Even at times, the barman. _Does everyone distrust us together so much? Is this the kind of reception two Grandmasters would produce?_

'Goodnight, Miss Harmon.' The sound of Borgov's voice brings her out of her thoughts and as Beth looks to him, she still notices how tense he is. It makes her want to ask why. If he is okay? If it is anything that she herself has done? The weight of the woman staring at them both prevents her from saying such things and instead, the young Grandmaster dips her head. 

____

'Goodnight, Mr Borgov. Thank you for helping me find my way back safely'. The woman stood besides them hadn't got an explanation from Borgov but looking out for the World Champion nevertheless, it is Beth's turn to stare at the Russian.This remains the case for a couple of seconds, his face completely blank before he then blinks and a shadow of a smile pulls at his mouth. The young Grandmaster swallows the desire of mentioning their outing tomorrow - how excited she is for it and with one final inclination of his head Borgov then turns his back and almost simultaneously Beth does the same. 

____

She is about half way to her room when a hot, prickling, sensation on the base of her neck caresses her skin. Pressing down on the urge to look over her shoulder, the closing of the elevator doors confirms his exit and that sensation fades. A shiver snakes its way down her spine from its absence, leaving her feel surprisingly cold.

Increasing her pace to her room as Beth's hand lands on the handle, a door further down the corridor opens sharply. The noise radiates through the space and jumping at the sudden sound, her teeth grit together when realising what just exactly the source is. 

____

'You, have _a lot_ of explaining to do. My room, now, Miss Harmon'.

____

_Mr Booth. Fuck._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you once again made it this far, once more thank you so much and I hope you enjoyed!!
> 
> So, the artistic liberties I took were obviously with the newspaper. I could not find any information on how international affairs, and defection in particular, were handled in the Soviet press. But I went with a negative slance - hence the use of White Crow which was actually a nickname for Rudolf Nureyev.  
> Everything to do with Nureyev and his defection and with Yuri Soloviev, is true, however. If you get the time to watch any documentaries about it, I highly recommend doing so! Their lives are fascinating!
> 
> Rudolph Nureyev and Merle Parke did perform in 1968 - and in white! I wanted to make it as historically accurate as I could  
> to the Moscow Invitational You can watch their performance [here!](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CWVU-eZx6ZE)  
> Spartacus was also performed by the Bolshoi in 1968 too! Although, we'll see more of that in the next chapter c;
> 
> Sovetskoye Shampanskoye was an actual champagne! Its a generic brand, 'a champagne for the people'. (As usual, with my writing, this particular brand was used for a reason but secrets secrets c;). You can see it :D [here!](https://assets.atlasobscura.com/article_images/lg/69844/image.jpg=)">
> 
> Dezhurnaya - is a woman who looked after the keys to people rooms. When one checked into the hotel, they would be given a pass which would be shown to her (along with a passport) and she would hand over the keys. She was also effectively the person that also looked after a particular level of the hotel - making sure that nothing immoral happened. I guess you can understand why she wasn't too happy to see Borgov and Beth together hehehe c;
> 
> Thank you guys for reading and being so supportive, so far! I hope this chapter did not disappoint!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has come out a lot later than I first anticipated! I apologise for that! My mental health has been quite bad recently and the words haven't been coming to me as easily as they normally do. But its finally here! Although its taken me longer to write than expected, its also slightly longer than I first expected! Nevertheless, I hope you enjoy! :D As usual you can find me at Kaltian at tumblr! 
> 
> For the Ballet, I took most of my inspiration from this [Video!](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Nc-w1Zgl4dU&t=1284s=)"> The Bolshoi Theatre did perform Spartacus in 1968 so it's in keeping with the date of the show! If you want to watch a more recent version of the ballet I highly recommend this [one!](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dw2hpIKztGQ&t=747s=)
> 
> [This](https://arwen-imladris.tumblr.com/post/640947502676410368/nice-outfit-for-a-classy-night-out%20rel=) is where my inspiration for Borgov's suit came! On the lovely arwen-imladris' tumblr but of course, clean shaven, given his appearance in the show c; And [here](https://i.ibb.co/n8H0cyd/9ccd4c8d1c36f70e67698797bce8aa97.jpg=) is how I envisioned Beth's dress.  
> Enjoy! (◕ヮ◕)

Beth's handler stands imposingly, a dark, solid obstacle in the lights of the corridor. 

Despite the time of night, despite the numerous people most likely asleep, Mr Booth had not bothered to keep his voice low and considerate. It had travelled down the corridor in barely restrained anger forming a sharp, cutting, cacophony and Beth bites down on the inside of her cheeks to keep herself from grimacing. At this rate he'll have the whole hotel awake and the young Grandmaster had hoped not to see his face until the morning. Fatigue and weariness is beginning to overcome her but there he remains at the far side of the corridor, rigid and immovable. 

Dropping her hand from the door, each movement is filled with resistance. She knows that to suddenly rush away from him, to parody slamming the door in his face and leaving him far behind as she had earlier this day, will not be as effective this time. No doubt Mr Booth will _not_ hesitate or feel remorse about waking everyone in the hotel to get to her and feeling her eyes flutter in a final act of defiance, the young Grandmaster acquiesces - her own voice noticeably quieter than what his had been. 

'Alright...alright, I'm on my way'. Despite the softness of her voice it is evidently laced with irritation and annoyance which comes to manifest as a stormy expression upon her face. Moving towards him those clouds storm across her features more intensely and she is barely a couple of steps away from him when another presence joins the two of them. Her voice, speaking in English, is icily cold. 

'Its a little late to be talking, don't you agree?'

Beth had been so intent on staring at Mr Booth, not backing down, that she had not become aware of the lady's presence until she spoke. With a start she looks to her and total impassiveness with that continued air of accusation stares back. 

'No, I don't agree' Mr Booth's voice is firm. 'I want to speak with Miss Harmon on business regarding our flight. This can't wait until the morning' he says firmly, and surprisingly to Beth, he partly lies with effortlessness. The young Grandmaster knows that that is not all he will be talking to her about but she had not previously regarded this apt ability to be a quality that Mr Booth could possess...but he was appointed to be her handler. _That must mean something,_ Beth reminds herself. 

Shifting her attention to the Dezhurnaya, the older woman looks to the government agent and her lips curl at how he had abruptly spoken to her. For a moment, a flicker of something akin to worry flashes over Mr Booth's face but it is soon replaced with that usual contempt and the Dezhurnaya's expression darkens even further. The redhead grows tense. 

'Its true!' Beth suddenly blurts out. 'I did miss my flight today and I have no idea when I am due to leave' - _not an entire lie_ , she consoles herself. Beth knows when she will be leaving but she does not know the time. Will it be morning? Afternoon? Evening? She has not the slightest clue and keeping her attention on the older woman she is acutely aware of why she must distrust the two of them - Mr Booth in particular. 

Beth's handler sighs loudly. 

'The more time we stand out here, the later it gets. I won't keep her long' he assures, as though his word should mean anything to the Dezhurnaya. For all the grey haired woman knows they could want to talk about all kinds of things to do with espionage and the caution that seeps into her grey eyes, clearly shows that. Mr Booth taps his foot impatiently and Beth tries to block the annoying movement from her mind. 

'Mrs....' Beth starts, inviting her to speak her name. 

'Kuzmina' she responds, heavily. 

'Mrs Kuzmina' the redhead continues, switching to Russian. 'Throughout all my time here have you ever known me to do anything wrong, in your opinion?'

The Dezhurnaya's silence is confirmation enough. 

'I can assure you, Mrs Kuzmina that this will be no different. I'm obliged to humour him' she says with the tracing of a smile upon her lips.

Mr Booth keeps staring at the older woman impatiently and all of this saddens Beth. If the times and things were different, she would have loved to have been given the chance to learn more about this woman. Where she is from. Whether she has children. What her favourite sites in the city are but these are not the times and the times are not different. She awaits Mrs Kuzmina's response in absolute silence.

'Go. Go on. Both of you'. Her head jolts towards the door and Mr Booth wastes no time in heading to where the two of them can talk in relative privacy. His light brown coat swishes madly behind him and hurrying after him, Beth looks over her shoulder and bobs her head. 'Thank you' she says, although in reality she would have far preferred if the Dezhurnaya had made them wait until the morning.

Mrs Kuzmina says nothing and just watches as the two of them disappear. 

With an audible click of finality, the door closes behind them. Beth takes a couple of steps into the room as lights illuminate the rather small space, compared to her own. It is still filled with the same black and white wallpaper, the same red lamps and black desks...it is just more cramped and minimised. _He really hadn't been lying when he said I had the better room, then_.

Mr Booth stalks round her, a hunched, laboroured figure in her peripheral, and when her eyes meet his, almost automatically the muscles in her shoulders tense. If his glare had been dark outside it is hellish as he comes to stand right in front of her. Beth resists the urge to roll her shoulders. To show any sign of weakness and instead she stares darkly back at him - _I am not so easily intimidated._

The agent's hands splay either side. From the light in the ceiling, his fingers cast long tendrils of shadows behind him. 'Well?' he starts, in a desperate attempt to keep his voice even. A second later his eyes widen and Beth notices that he has dark patches underneath them. 'What, the _hell,_ was that? What were you _thinking_ , Miss Harmon!?' He scoffs, shaking his head, piece by piece of his professional restraint crumbling before her. 'You do _not_ want to know the absolute _chaos_ that erupted back home when they heard that you were gone. The pressure they put on _me_ because I am meant to be making sure that this kind of this _doesn't_ happen!' His hand cuts through the air to point jabbingly towards her. 'So, _where_ were you and more importantly, why the _fuck_ did I hear Vasily Borgov's voice? Did he give you a signal? Is that why you left?' His brows furrow angrily at the prospect. 'Out of all the Soviet players I told you to be wary of you just had to -'.

'Give me one second to speak and I'll actually answer your questions, Mr Booth' Beth hisses whilst her hands tighten round the edges of her coat. The outburst catches the agent by surprise, as though in his ranting he had forgotten about her presence and when he looks to her face he becomes struck by the glistening of her irises and the sheer frustration in her voice. Blinking for a couple of moments, Mr Booth makes the effort to drop his hand and soften his features, opening and closing his mouth like that of a fish. Running that hand that was by his side through his hair, it remains there as his brows raise and his head jerks forwards. Its an indication that she should speak but it only serves to bristle Beth who contemplates storming from the room. Knowing that could never be a possibility however, the redhead takes a breath to centre herself - pushing down on all too familiar rage. 

'I' the redhead starts, resisting the urge to spit her words through her teeth 'left the car to walk around the city. That is all.' She knows that she should leave it there but Mr Booth gives her an expression of disbelief and that rage inside of her burns brighter. 'Do you want to know why I did that?' it is Beth's turn to take step closer and her voice turns vicious. 'Because it was so _fucking_ pretentious being in that car, that's why. I'm not and never will be, a political statement. I am a chess player who competes against other chess players'. The young Grandmaster mimics his scoff. 'And no, _Mr Borgov'_ she stresses, using his name respectfully (anything else would have felt strange) 'did not give me a signal - of any kind. He did not corner me and try to prize American secrets from me, either. We simply celebrated my win and then he made sure I got back to my floor safely' she lifts her arms to the sides. 'Are you satisfied now?' 

Beth's deep brown eyes shimmer as she takes in his rackety form and she wills herself to calm and even her thoughts. As she does, one comes into her mind that she had not contemplated before. She doesn't want to say that it worries her but she has not forgotten the stares and glances she had recieved when by Borgov's side. How they had stayed on her for a moment too long. How they watched. 'Should... we even be talking about such things in here? What if the room is bugged?' she asks quietly and partly in the hope that Mr Booth hadn't thought about this. 

All it does, is earn Beth another scoff. 'Do you really think I wouldn't have checked? We are in _Moscow_ , Miss Harmon, _and_ we are _Americans_. The room is clean' he assures, shaking his head as though the question had been senseless. 'I made sure of that'. His free hand pinches the bridge of his nose before once again waving towards her. 'What were you _doing_ in the city for all those hours, then? Why did you not, at the very least, let me know you were alright!?'

'I found some people to play chess with. If you don't believe me I can take you to the exact spot tomorrow and _if_ I had told you where I was, you would have found me and dragged me to wherever you deemed fit. Do you really think I would have taken that chance?' Her words become breathy. 'I want to _see_ this city, Mr Booth. _Experience_ it. I barely had a taste, if at all, before I was then whisked away and about to be forced to preach ideals that I _really_ don't care about'. The square piece of paper that the government agent was going to hand her, rises in her mind. She never wants to see it again. 

'Miss Harmon, can you not see why?' as though he is talking to a child his words are slow and almost patronising. 'Not everything in this city, in this country, is to be experienced. Not everyone will share your passion for chess, either - more so now, as you beat them'. The hand lodged in his hair increases its grip. 'It's possible that there is already a target on your back. You're American, you beat the Soviets on their own soil at a game that for years they have dominated. Do you not realise that? You may not want to believe that chess is political but to the big boys on both sides, that is exactly what chess is. Your match with Vasily Borgov was and is no small matter'.

Beginning to pace, his head moves from the window, to the floor, to Beth and then back to the window. 'I'll take my chances in believing that you were indeed, innocently playing chess today, but if I come to be proven wrong... ' he looks over to her darkly and doesn't finish his sentence, leaving Beth to shudder on the spot. 'About the actual business we are _supposed_ to be talking about' he continues more lightly 'I'm sure the receptionist told you that we are spending an additional week here. That's true. The weather is too bad to fly but it should be good enough by Sunday evening. We fly then. But, Miss Harmon' his tone slides back to darker rumbles. 'There is _no way_ that you are leaving this hotel during the time between. Is that clear? Your room, fine. My room, fine. The restaurant, also fine. Anything else, is a no go. You got that?'

Perhaps it is the alcohol still coursing through Beth's veins that causes her to respond so quickly. For before she can properly register what she has done, blasphemous words fall out of her mouth. 'Well, that's too bad as I am going to the Ballet with Mr Borgov tomorrow'. 

The pacing stops. His head turns.

'Excuse me?'

The almost prideful expression that Beth had been wearing threatens to falter. She swallows, flicking her eyebrows upwards which makes her curls at the side of her face bounce. 'You heard me' she responds.

With a face of absolute stone it then abruptly cracks when Mr Booth begins to laugh. Actually laugh at what she had said. It is such a random thing to witness that Beth does not know how to react and so she stands still, watching and listening to his frightened sound. 

'There...there is no way that you are doing that with _him.'_ The laughing stops and he spins to face her. 'Miss Harmon, have you lost your mind!?' He strides towards her moving closer than before. ' _You_ are staying _here,_ far away from _them'._ The government agent spits these words at her and Beth grows increasingly riled by the second. She wants to yell at him. Shout and make it clear that she can do whatever she wants. Her hands curl in on themselves. 

_'Them?_ Do you have any idea how ignorant you sound right now? I am going to the Ballet tomorrow, Mr Booth. And there is nothing you can do to stop me'. With a noise leaving her throat that sounds something close to a snarl she turns her back on her handler.

_It is a dangerous move._

'Don't you _dare_ walk away from me. Not after what you have put me through. If you leave this hotel, now that I know what you're up to and because you have broken my trust, I _will_ bring you back'. 

'I am old enough to make my own decisions' Beth grits through her teeth, smacking her hand down on the handle. 

'That you may be but you are not permitted to make your own decisions here'.

Beth stops and turns back round to face him. The clouds which had been collecting on her face now swirl and distort her features. 'Then you'll have to _drag_ me back and embarrass yourself in front of everyone who sees. Would your superiors like that? If they came to learn that you dragged a Grandmaster through the streets?' A vicious smile spreads across her lips like venom. 'Ohhh' she says, tasting the word deliciously 'I'm sure that the press would love that'.

'Miss _Harmon_ ' he breathes exasperatedly. 'Don't make things more difficult than what they are. I'm only trying to look out for you'. 

'I can do that myself! I think I know the Russian team better than you do'. Despite the conviction in which Beth had said this the subtle expression that overtakes Mr Booth's face has her doubting it for a second. She is used to noticeable and easy reactions form this man. This one is difficult to read... making her think that perhaps the opposite to what she had said is true. Swallowing, not ready to perceive this as possible Beth too softens her features. It is clear that this line of attack is not working and just like in her matches Beth knows that she must adapt. 'Look... I won't do anything stupid. I wish you could see that. I mean, tonight was fine! I'm back in one piece, aren't I!?' When she still gets none of the desired reactions from Mr Booth she says 'Is there anything I can do to persuade you that tomorrow will be harmless? If you really want proof that I was playing chess today I can absolutely take you to where I was'.

The older man continues to stare at Beth and he continues to say nothing. A silence presses the room, making each second feel torturously eternal. This is until in one swift movement he walks to his nightstand and opens the top drawer. Reaching for something, when he returns to her a small, blue, notebook is in his hand. Beth's eyebrows furrow. 

'You can persuade me with this.' He lifts the notebook so the young Grandmaster can get a better look. It only causes the line between her brows to deepen, wondering how she could possibly persuade him with _that_. When the following words fall out of Mr Booth's mouth, she wishes that she had not wondered at all.

'Write everything you find out about Vasily Borgov, the Soviet players, the regime in general, in here' he moves the book half way between them. 'You agree to do this and I'll let you go to the Ballet and depending how well you do...other freedoms too. Such as leaving the hotel without me, if you happen to do something else together'.

Beth's wide eyes stare at the blue atrocity and then lift to her handler's. Shock and disgust and disbelief wracks her. What he is asking her to do feels poisonous and treacherous and her eyes begin to water from the absurdity and shallowness of it all. 'You think I can be _bribed?'._ A burst of air escapes her lips, adding to her horror. 'Fuck _that,_ Mr Booth. I already told you that I will not become a political tool and I don't intend to start that now'. The thought of taking that blue notebook into her hands, of doing what he had asked and agreeing to this bargain, makes her feel nauseous. 

'Then you'll be staying in the hotel tomorrow evening, Miss Harmon. That goes for for the rest of the week, too'. The blue notebook retracts to his chest and betrayingly, something within Beth gives a little, her eyes falling to the book with a start.

'Why? Why do you want me to do this? Is this also part of your job? To fucking spy on people?'

Mr Booth looks nonplussed and he recoils, lashes fluttering. 'It just called being faithful to your country'.

 _'Being faithful to your country!?'_ Beth echoes, repeating each ludicrous word. It is all she can do to keep herself from laughing. 'Why? _Why_ is _this_ the only way I can persuade you?' she presses, her voice becoming harder. 

'Because, thanks to your escapade the White House is _pissed_. This, might be a way for you to fall more quickly back into favour and varnish your reputation which is blackening. I mean, do you not know how what you did today looks? Miss Harmon, you avoided the flight back to America. Avoided a match with the _president_ and you _disappeared_ for hours. Not only that, but you also denied the funding of a Christian group - which yes, has not gone unnoticed. Do you see what I am getting at here?' When Beth doesn't reply he presses on further. 'This can be your chance to help solve matters and give a valid reason for your actions today. Again, I can see no good coming out of your dalliances with Vasily Borgov, who is likely already pushing some kind of agenda of his own, unless you too do the same'.

All of this washes over Beth like an ice cold wave. _Is all of this true or he is just saying this to coerce me?_. Yet, Beth is no fool. She absolutely knows how her actions could be taken and with her throat becoming dry, her focus switches between the notebook and his face, becoming more and more feverish. She refuses to believe that about Mr Borgov. That he could have an agenda of his own. But bumping into each other earlier this evening... could that have been more than just a coincidence? Not liking that thought, her head tilts to one side and when she speaks, her words are delivered with less confidence than she had been hoping. 'Are you always this negative?'

Mr Booth notices that less potent poison in her voice and he too reduces the cutting edge to his words. 'Not negative, Miss Harmon. Realistic. I urge you to be realistic if you want to join Vasily Borgov tomorrow'.

Beth's breath is heavy in her throat, hurting her from her chest like she is inhaling glass. She wants this pain to fade but in doing so she knows that she will become the very thing, doing the very things, which she had previously rejected. Now feeling her mouth become dry, that nausea rising to her throat, the thought of not seeing Mr Borgov tomorrow pushes her over the edge. 'I'll... I'll do it'.

A wide smile curves Mr Booth's lips. 'There we go. There is the pragmatic lady the whole world knows'.

The redhead ignores his comment and is about to take the notebook from him when Mr Booth pulls it back. She lifts her head to him with an element of tired irritation. _What now?_.

'Hide this well, Miss Harmon. That woman out there can come into your room whenever she likes and she doesn't have to have a valid reason to do so. Keep it safe and out of sight'. Now, Mr Booth hands the book over to Beth and she gingerly clasps her hand around it. That nausea returns. 'Report your findings to me in two days. That should give you enough time to find something substantial'.

'Understood' she responds. 

'I hope you do', comes his solemn reply. 'This is no laughing matter, Miss Harmon.' His eyes dance over her face. 'Just promise me that you won't do anything too risky. If he or the Soviet team clicks onto what you are doing, that is more shit for me and this could turn nasty for the both of us. But...I'm sure you _can_ handle yourself. You've got the Russian tongue down' he says lightly, referring to Beth speaking to the Dezhurnaya. His thin lips curl upwards.

Beth is ready to leave, obviously done with this conversation and his smile. She presses down on the handle. 

'Miss Harmon, wait'. He takes a step closer to her. 'I mean it when I ask you to be careful. There is a reason I told you to be wary of Vasily Borgov, in particular'. 

'Will you tell me the reason?'

When the government agent does not answer, Beth returns to her room.

~

The next evening, snowflakes once again fall to the earth, dusting the whole landscape in a glittering white. Numerous people hurry on by, leaving or exiting the hotel, or passing as shadows behind the glass, like dark images on a zoetrope. Beth stands stationary, in the exact place that she had bumped into the World Champion the night before. 

She is ridiculously torn.

A part of her is screaming to return to Mr Booth and throw the notebook in his face to call this whole thing off. The other side entices her forwards. Towards the ballet and towards... him. - _I could always make something up when Mr Booth demands results. He must not know much if he is having to ask me..._

Taking one step forwards the overwhelming urge to spin round on the spot and march to her room threatens to conquer her completely. The whole evening, thanks to her handler is now tainted. The innocence, the purity of it, ripped apart and her heart aches, knowing that this evening could have been different. But Beth forces herself to walk forwards, in an unsteady rhythm at first, but getting more and more relaxed with each step. The Young Grandmaster reminds herself that she doesn't know how long it will be until she comes back here. If she will ever have this chance again and so holding her head high, she forces herself to be confident.

As she approaches the exit Beth is about to push the door open when she catches the image of herself reflected in the glass. Wide, brown, eyes stare back at her as she looks over her dark, emerald green, velvet gown which cascades all the way to the floor. Seams run from her hips, and down the inner of her thighs which accentuate both the shape of herself and the dress. Another seam runs just under her bust, giving the material above a slightly ruffled appearance to the rest of the dress. Although hidden at the moment by her thick, black cotton coat, the sleeves are open from the shoulder to wrist but joined there with a matching emerald button. It is all classically elegant. Classically glamorous. 

Her focus returns to her face and doe, winged eyes, framed by her curled hair and red lips, stare back at her. Beth has not the slightest clue whether what she is wearing is appropriate. Whether it is too fancy or too casual and that well known nervousness knots itself in her stomach. Taking in a deep breath she opens the door, leaving the hotel and the image of herself, behind.

Since the year is drawing closer to its end (and the snowfall is worse than usual) the wind holds a bitter chill as step by step she descends to the pavement. The emerald dress whispers as it trails behind her on the red carpet and from time to time people glance in her direction, some of the gazes lingering. The young Grandmaster is not aware of this. Her eyes buzz around her immediate surroundings, trying to find the figure that even in a crowd of thousands she feels she would be able to locate with ease. Now at the last step, she remembers that Borgov had asked her to meet a little way from the hotel and looking to the right, she sees him then. Clouds dance from her lips. 

In that strange connection they have, that they both seem able to sense the others gaze, Borgov turns his head towards her and even from this distance, Beth can see him falter. She breathes a little heavier, willing herself not to look at her clothes, fearing once more that she may have overdone it. But the World Champion's lips tug upwards, albeit softly, and with her eyes fluttering all worries are forgotten. Beth smiles back and feeling the grip on her black bag increase a little, she makes her way to him, locked in his gaze.

Time loses all meaning. The whole world around her blurs out of focus, the streetlights and sparkling snow, turning into circular pieces of light. Only Borgov remains clear - strangely crystalline in clarity. 

He is dressed in a dark attire (nothing new about that she marks wryly) but the suit is a less severe black than usual. This one is sharper, hugging against his body which makes his shoulders look...beautiful and fine. His dark hair is also less severely parted and gelled, giving him an air of youthfulness that Beth wouldn't have previously expected. Overall there is a surprising quality of _life_ about him that catches her off guard - from the impeccable Borgov that Beth has come to know.

The redhead comes realise that she is not adverse to this. Not at all and with now only a few metres separating them Beth hopes that he will take the redness of her cheeks as a simple reaction to the cold. That is what is, after all. 

'Good evening, Mr Borgov'. 

'Good evening, Miss Harmon'. His voice, in Russian, sounds slightly taut. 'You...' he never finishes that sentence. It hangs heavily in the air, incomplete and perhaps unwanted.

Beth cannot bear to have anything else press on the evening and so, she makes light of it.

'You are looking good! You should think about wearing this kind of attire to your matches. I can't be the only glamourous one all the time, you know.' 

Borgov smiles and looks to the ground - _shyly?_ When his attention returns to her, any sign of that is gone. 'Shall we?' he proposes, lifting a hand to the car. Smiling brightly, Beth nods her head.

'Let's' she replies.

~

The Bolshoi Theatre is magnificent as it enters their line of sight. The neo-classical building Borgov informs her was opened in 1825 and she has to restrain herself from making a joke about his age. Biting down on her lip, she listens attentively when he goes onto tell her that before the October Revolution it had also been one of the Imperial Theatres and when they enter the auditorium, it is not difficult to imagine or see why.

Plush crimsons and gilded golds fill the space. Rows after rows of chairs match to the orchestra pit and five levels rise to the ceiling, decorated by golden borders and electric candles. With her attention lifting to the ceiling the three-tier chandelier then comes into view. Her eyes widen, reflecting its opulent light. The glass spectacle is sixty five metres in diameter, rising eight and half metres tall and weighing two tons. It is blindingly bright. An absolutely awesome object to behold and Beth is pleased to find that she is not the only one mesmerised by this. There are constant gasps and people looking up with amazement on their faces. 

She doesn't realise that she has been walking blindly and staring at everything that surrounds her until Borgov directs her attention to himself by gently touching her back.

The lavish interior suddenly isn't as important.

Just like last night, his touch seems to burn her, seeping through the fabric of her clothing and to her skin beneath. His touch is gentle this time, so featherlight that Beth finds it almost infuriating, a sinful desire to lean back and feel him more strongly blossoming throughout her. Blinking a couple of times, lowering her gaze to the ground which exaggerates her long lashes, the young Grandmaster tries her best to remain guarded.

'We're in one of the boxes' Borgov says softly, pointing to the second floor. This brings him closer to Beth, his head coming nearer to hers as he leans over her shoulder. She flutters her attention from the ground and to him, automatically struck by their proximity. She can smell his cologne, as she did in the elevator - musky. Clearing her throat, now forcing herself to look where he is pointing, she tries to find that box to be the most fascinating thing in the world. Which it could be - if he wasn't standing so close, with his burning touch still raging on her lower back.

'Come' the Russian says softly, removing his touch. 

As though under a spell, Beth follows him without hesitation.

When they get to the box she gracefully removes her coat, placing it on the chair that she sits down upon and she shuffles forwards so that her arms rest against the bannister. Borgov takes the seat to her left. 

The electric candle lights from the level above frame Beth's red hair, her side profile and set her deep emerald dress alive with the most warm of textures and shades. Looking to Borgov briefly, Beth finds that he was gazing her way and offering him a gentle smile she then looks below them and watches as the audience continues to arrive, their chattering and laughter a pleasant sound as the musicians begin to warm up - scales and random notes being played in disharmony. It all adds to the excitement, building with every note that comes from the orchestra pit and taking look at what she presumes would have been the royal box Borgov then enters her peripheral a second time. She sheepishly sits back. 'Sorry'. 

An amused expression flickers over his face. 'There is no need to apologise. It is a beautiful place'.

'It really is' Beth breathes. 'Thank you so much for inviting me here'.

The Russian bows his head. 'How was your day?'

Bringing her hands to her lap she smiles softly. She had not done much. Played over some old games, ordered food to her room. Nothing too interesting. 'It was okay, thank you'. The blue notebook which she had hidden under the bed, on top of one of the boards that supports it, then creeps into her mind. 'How was yours?' she asks, preventing that sickening hold from increasing its grip as it had with Mr Booth. The only pleasant element to it all is that those pages are currently blank. Beth had been unable to write a thing. 

'Okay, too' he mirrors. 'The business I have to attend doesn't start until tomorrow'.

Beth's head tilts to one side at that. He had mentioned this 'business' the previous evening. Is it something to note? 'I hope it's nothing too strenuous?'

Borgov smiles again, a muscle feathering along his jaw. 'It shouldn't be'.

The young Grandmaster glances to the stage, the heavy red curtain swaying every so often by what she can only guess the dancers behind it. An awkward atmosphere lies between the two of them. Again. She doesn't want things to remain like this every time they meet. But what can she say? How do they get to that point? 

'Miss Harmon, I was deeply wounded by Luchenko at the match you had against him'. 

Beth turns her head to the Russian and finds his eyes remarkably exuding this emotion of hurt. For a moment, she actually believes him but then she notices a mischievous glimmer and it becomes a battle to keep her lips in a thin line.

' _Best chess player he has ever played in his life._ Did he forget about the countless times he has lost to me?' 

Beth's smile turns bright and she leans into the relaxed atmosphere, puckering her lips. 'Luchenko is not wrong. I _am_ the best. He is only saying what everyone knows to be true'. 

'Who is the World Champion?' he ask stonily, gravely. 

Beth narrows her eyes. 'You. But not for much longer. Mark my words' she shifts in her seat a little, leaning forwards like she is conspiring with him. 'You may be trying to soften me up right now but my passion to defeat you will remain forever - no matter how many Ballets you take me to'.

A sigh passes Borgov's lips. He doesn't lean back. 'That's a shame, I thought that would work'. His voice is laced with amusement and he mentions nothing about a match for the World Title.

Repressing a laugh, surprised that this man can actually tease, she batts a hand to his arm, not noticing this avoidance, being too caught up in the light feeling flowing between them. 'I thought you were a gentleman!' 

'Aahh, talking about gentleman, Luchenko wasn't one, was he?' he counters. 'Saying that you are the best chess player he has ever played and right behind my back! Whilst my match was still on going!' He shakes his head, a master of faux sorrow. 

'I personally think that Luchenko is the most gentlemanly of you all. Hellstrom is at the bottom, obviously'. 

'Not everyone is gracious in defeat, Miss Harmon.' his eyes lock on hers, tellingly, and Beth snickers. 

'I've got better!' she defends herself 'and I always did shake your hand! Even when I didn't want to' she makes an expression of distaste, her eyes running up and down him. It is a move she instantly regrets. Against the reds and lavish golds, his form and his clothing is as equally immaculate. His blue eyes glisten like sapphires in the setting, the warmth of the place glowing against his skin. _Don't lose your conviction now!_ 'But so far, Luchenko holds the title for most gentlemanly of gentleman. Nothing will change my mind'.

A second of silence passes a between them. Beth tries not to focus on him too much. 'Do you still insist on calling him the _most gentlemanly of gentleman_ when he fell asleep?' 

Beth laughs heartily, remembering with a flash how Luchenko had layed out, head back, with a serene expression upon his face when the instructor had spoken to them all. 'Yes I saw that! I don't think I've given any other instructor so much of my attention before' she keeps laughing and leans a little closer. 'That still doesn't change my mind. Everyone has to sleep but does he always do so at such moments?' Her lips widen, genuinely curious about this still relatively unknown figure to her. 

'Only at the serious tournaments. I think its his way of lightening the mood. Making things less serious and grave. In Leningrad he fell asleep when they had just given out the coffee. How he did not spill it all over himself, to this day I'll never know'. 

Beth asks a more dangerous question. 

'Is there a reason he only does regional or national tournaments?' 

Beth remembers one of the commentators speaking about this and like a thorn, it has dug into her.

'His age, predominantly'.

Not really sure what to make of that Beth gives him a tight lipped smile and reopens the space between them. His blue eyes are now piercing, almost frightening, as he looks to her and she finds herself recoiling. 

_I need more practice at this at this whole spy craft thing. Should I switch out Alekhine for 007?_

'I am second?' Borgov says suddenly and it takes a moment for Beth to realise what he is talking about. 

'Oh. _No._ That spot goes to Girev. Such charm! He said it was an _honour_ to play against me' she raises her eyebrows at him as though he should impressed. As though he should start saying some things similar. 

Borgov's eyes drop to her hand, a soft expression on his face as he looks to her watch, before he remembers himself. His expression when he returns to looking at Beth is comically blank.

'None of my opponents have hugged me after a match, though. You did that'. The King chess piece, placed on the nightstand by her bed floats into her mind. 

'Yes... I did' he says slowly. 

Beth feels hot. 

People start clapping and they both look away. The conductor has made his way to the pit and clapping along, with each joining of her hands, she wills whatever had been burning inside of her to subside. Watching as the conductor takes his place, bows and smiles the music starts. 

It is loud, victorious and to Beth, sounding rather villainous in places. The monumental crimson curtains pull open and the lights dull, a spot light landing on Māris Liepa playing the role of Crassus. He is clad in a gold tunic with a pure white cape attached to his back. Standing high upon a chariot with numerous standards sticking behind him as sharp as knives his expression is piercing, dominating and commanding. He holds an eagle staff in his hand as he proudly revels in his victory. When the spotlight fades and the whole stage illuminates, a scene of a triumph over the citizens of Thrace plays out and Liepa turns and jumps, at times seeming to freeze in mid-air. _Is this how Nueryev was?_

The scene then changes from Crassus and his men and to those who have been captured, dancing with chains around their wrists. Eventually the stage empties and Vladimir Vasiliev emerges as Spartacus. The audience claps furiously for one of their nation's stars and Beth watches intently as he performs a solo, also with chains bound around his wrists. He stretches his arms and legs and pirouettes with his restraints, desperately wanting and trying to break free. But he is unable and he collapses to the floor, his head in his hands. Soon after, the rest of the captives fill the stage and they begin to be sold. After an erratic attempt to keep Phrygia, his wife, in his arms and to keep them from being separated Spartacus is parted from her. The way in which he had carried Phrygia and tried to protected her from harm was beautifully sad. 

His wife is now isolated and vulnerable and the ballet moves to a scene in Crassus's home. He sits at the back of the stage with a stunning woman besides him - Aegina. Her hair is dark and short. She wears numerous jewels and the most luxurious of clothing. A true statement that catches the eyes. Beside them on either side men lounge with one leg up, looking with cruel amusement at Sparactus' wife - all alone and at the mercy of their games and...men. Dressed as satyrs they dance and tug and pull her around and terrified Phrygia has no option but to relent to them. At some point, Crassus and Aegina decide it is their time to play and the former offers Phrygia to join the bacchanalian party. She deftly refuses. Spartacus' wife is now taken away and the Roman demands a more...riveting form of entertainment.

Two gladiators are bought to the stage, wearing helmets with closed visors. They are put against the other in a fight to the death and Beth finds herself on the edge of her seat as they stab at each other blindly, hoping to hit their opponent although not knowing who they are. The dancers on stage, rise and fall whenever they get too close or too far apart and eventually, one of the Gladiators wins, his sword piercing the others chest. When both of their helmets are removed, sheer anguish and agony wracks Spartacus' features. He has killed his friend.

This is what sparks his fire for revolution, for rebellion. For standing up against this regime. But he cannot do it alone. Siding with the other slaves and the general populace they plan on storming Crassus's home.

Before this, Aegina has her own solo and her desire to seduce Crassus so that she may become fully accepted into the nobility, a recipient of numerous jewels and wealth and clothing, is played out. When this is over Spartacus and his forces arrive at Crassus's home and the two of them go head to head.

They prowl round the other, swords pointed and eyes ablaze, as hot and angry as burning coals. Crassus eventually loses his weapon. It clatters to the ground and the smug expression is wiped from his face. His fate now lies with Spartacus. But he spares him and Crassus, wide eyed, flees from the scene - totally unscathed. He does not take this uprising lightly and amasses his own forces. Aegina devises a plan to seduce forces into dissension, into debauchery. It works. They become, drunken, loving fools and when Spartacus comes to rally his forces, he finds that some have even turned against him, now fighting for Crassus.

Nevertheless, Spartacus refuses to contemplate defeat and he faces Crassus and his forces. Towards the end of the scene, he finds himself isolated, at sword point on every side. He tries in vain to fight them but to no avail and when Crassus enters the stage his men charge towards Spartacus and he is lifted into the air, looking as though he has been impaled by tens of dark, nasty, spears. 

The music crashes, quietening into a drum beat. Beth blinks as Crassus swaggers towards the end of the stage, looking to the audience and displaying the golden Eagle, with the words SPQR underneath. Just as he had in the beginning.

_Has he really won? Surely it can't end like this!?_

When the stage darkens, the remaining slaves fill the space and Phrygia weeps over Spartacus' body, clasping her hands together and repeatedly throwing them in the air. Her dark hair is loose and the spotlight follows her as she moves, showing that she is now alone. The spotlight remains on her, as Spartacus' body is lifted by the slaves. Phrygia places his shield on his chest and with her arms then spread wide to the sky in a final cry of lamentation, the music stops and the curtains close.

It takes a moment for Beth to start clapping, stunned by the turn of events but when people stand to their feet, shouting 'Bravo! Bravo!' and the curtain opens for the the company members, soloists and principles to take their bows, the young Grandmaster soon follows suit, rising to her feet in unison with Borgov. 

~

'What is your verdict?' Mr Borgov asks as they approach the exit.

'Glorious, beautiful, heroic and... sad'.

'Do you have a favourite character?'

Beth let's out a whistle. 'That's a hard one. All the dancers gave their all!' She suddenly remembers their conversation from yesterday and a brow edges upwards. 'Is your favourite still the king? Spartacus I mean?'

'Indeed'.

He gives her a look that Beth doesn't quite understand. She moves to humour.

'Ahhh, you're a man that doesn't change' she says teasingly.

Borgov doesn't react. 

Pressing onwards, regretting saying such a thing, the outside crashes against Beth with more ferocity than it had when she had left the hotel - not surprisingly as it is now later in the night. Still, as snowflakes lazily waltz from the sky, albeit more heavily to her surprise and she brings her coat closer about her body as she marvels at how cold it is. Glancing over to Borgov she wonders if he too feels the bone chilling weather or whether growing up in Russia desensitises the sensation, somewhat. Keeping that question to herself, not wanting to say anything else that is stupid, they look for a taxi and descend the stairs. 

Beth is on the last concrete slab when her foot slides from beneath her, slipping over ice. She hadn't seen it, believing that with the amount of people walking up and down these steps that any of it would have worn away. With a gasp she begins to fall, completely taken off balance. 

Strong arms come to wrap around her waist, catching and preventing her from landing on the ground. Beth instinctively grabs onto this steadiness and she shuffles to stabilise herself, covering and gripping his hands with her own. Wobbling as she attempts to regain her posture, Borgov's hands against her body increase their hold which presses her body further against his. The slightest noise of effort comes from Borgov's throat, low, guttural and breathy. 

This all does not properly register with the young Grandmaster until she is confident she isn't going to slip any further. Then, it takes only a moment, with her heart still beating wildly, to become fully aware of their situation. Of Borgov's large hands splayed over her hips. His fingers pressing onto her dress, firm and solid. But his grip lessens with each passing second, now knowing that she is alright and with each second that his touch relents the more the redhead wants to push down on his hands to stop him. 

At this realisation Beth's breath catches itself in her throat and her fingers dance over his, comforting and warm against the cold of the night. She shouldn't be feeling this way. He had only been courteous and done the right thing in making sure that she hadn't hurt herself. But Beth cannot shake the discovery that although his previous, light touches had burnt her, this sends a heat through her body like wildfire which is not helped by his chest pressed against her back and the tickle of his warm breath on her neck. In the cold air, the sensation is felt more acutely, making her hairs stand on edge. Her lips open, her neck begins to arch.

'Are you alright, Miss Harmon?'

 _Shit._ She blinks, rapidly. Her face turning scarlet. 'Yeah...Yes! I'm okay. Thank you for uhm...well, you know' she says lightly, tapping his hand. 

In a second that seems to span for years Mr Borgov lifts his hands and stands away from her - leaving Beth strangely wanting to collapse into his arms again. Exhaling a deep but quiet breath her eyes glance to the sky as she mentally berates herself for allowing her guard to collaspe so quickly. She focuses on the snow. On how the white flakes dance around the two of them but almost inexorably, her eyes land on Borgov again and she takes in his dark hair and his dark suit, sprinkled with white. The word that she would use to describe him frightens her. 'You're coming for Luchenko's spot as the most gentlemanly of gentleman' she attempts at joking, trying not to let on just how flustered she is. 

Borgov gives a tight lipped smile, not answering her, and walks by her side towards in silence to one of the taxis. Beth notices that his muscles are tense. Just like her own. 

~

When the taxi rumbles to a stop and pulls away Beth fidgets with her hands as they make their way to the entrance of the hotel. This has all happened so quickly and she hasn't really gathered any information from him, either. At that realisation that sickening feeling floods through her. Tonight has been lovely. She doesn't want things to become ruinous - as is a tendency in her life. Yet, the thought of not seeing him again - until what? A year? Possibly two years? is terrible and hollow. She also has her own reputation to consider too. _Can I really not worry about that?_ Beth turns her face to his. 

_Where do I even begin?..._

'How did you start playing chess, Mr Borgov?' 

The question seems to take him by surprise but it also seems to warm him shortly afterwards. Blinking softly, briefly looking to the falling snow, he replies with that same softness. 'My father, as most men in my country do, played chess in his spare time. I remember always being curious and one day he showed me the rules and he discovered I had talent. It progressed from there... 'he trails off slightly. 'I joined a club. They taught me what my father could not and then I was competing in local, then regional and then national tournaments'. 

'Was it what you wanted to do?' Beth resists wincing at how direct she is being. 

This question too, seems to take him by surprise but more than the other. It's as though he had never considered it before. 

'Of course' he replies. 'My father did insist on me getting a degree - if my chess career, however unlikely, did not go as well as expected. So I studied at Moscow State University - Law. But I knew what I wanted to do with my life. What I still want to do'. 

Despite her line of questioning and its obvious intentions, it is Beth's turn to be surprised. She couldn't quite envision Borgov as a lawyer but then she remembers his characteristic impassive stare, his commanding appearance that demands respect and authority without a single word being uttered from his mouth and she can imagine it perfectly. That emotion spreads itself across her face and she genuinely smiles. 'Get you! You know, it's only fair if you're good at one thing. Its _really_ unfair to be good at two'. 

This cracks a smile. 'I don't think I would call myself good. I neglected my studies more than I should and some of my essays were... less than agreeable. There was a chess club at the University and for a while I did set it aside. My mother insisted that my studies were important. That I was not to play chess whilst I was enrolled. But the urge to play just _one_ game grew stronger every day and before long, I was a regular member. I never told my mother of course and I graduated, so all seemed well'. 

'Mr Borgov the rebel' she flashes a Cheshire cat grin. 'You know! That kind of suits you!?' 

Beth was expecting a tease, a quip or remark from the Russian. 'Do you really think so?' he says and Beth blinks uncertainly. 

_Time for another question!_

'Did you meet your wife at the University? ' she curves her voice to sound light and airy. 

' At the chess club' he responds and the redhead's eyebrows raise. She could not picture Mrs Borgova sitting over a chess board, her hands either placed on her cheeks or settled on her arms and she must be expressing these thoughts as the World Champion continues with amusement. 'Don't let her pretty dresses fool you. If Luchenko is a tiger Larisa was a lioness. A lioness that would devour all those who dared to sit opposite her.'

'Even you?' Beth breathes, totally enraptured by his story. 

'Even me'.

Realisation clicks in Beth's brain. 'Wait...' she laughs in shock. 'Was your wife the first opponent you played at the university chess club? Is that why you kept going back? The o' mighty Borgov, couldn't beat her!? ' 

His smile tells her all she needs to know.

'Oh my goodness!' she stops for a moment, stamping her foot. 'That's' _no, don't you dare say adorable_ 'adorable, Mr Borgov! Here I thought you were undefeatable even in your early years' she looks excitedly over at him. 'Does she still play?' 

_I would love to play her._

'Only in her free time. She never competed. Only ever played for fun'.

Beth's brows knit together at that. _Surely someone of her talent would have been scouted?_

'That's a shame. It sounded like she had real talent?' 

'She was mighty' Mr Borgov says and looking to him there seems to be the tracings of sorrow on his face. She bites her lips. Guilt growing and edging its claws under her skin.

'Does Nikolai play chess? It sounds like he has two great people to follow and learn from if he does!'

'He is good but it is not in his heart... I am rather glad for it'.

Beth tilts her head in question. Borgov sends her one of those looks that she cannot decipher. 

'There can be too much chess in ones life, I think'. 

That period of time, after Paris, where Beth couldn't even so much as look at a chess board rises into her mind. She nods her head. 

'I understand that'.

The two of them slow when they come to steps of the hotel. Borgov had been telling her about how his son is wanting to pursue something in literature. How he often sneaks out of his bed at night and switches on his lamp to write furiously - to which either himself or his wife will have to gently chastise him for. Beth smiles softly with a hint of sadness.

She can't do this. What Mr Booth had asked of her. She can't. It feels intrusive and rotten and _wrong._ The young Grandmaster knows what that means for her. What it means for them and looking to Borgov, Beth wonders if this will be last time for months or years that she will see his face. Once she tells Mr Booth that she is not going ahead with this bargain of his she knows that she staring at the interior of the hotel for the rest of week and pain opens in her chest, manifesting itself more greatly into a scratchy effect on her voice. Borgov's blue eyes, lightly trailing over her face, only makes it worse. 'Thank you for taking me to the Ballet tonight. It was lovely to spend more time with you that doesn't involve staring daggers at you from over a chess board'.

'The pleasure is all mine, Miss Harmon.' He pauses. 'If you ever desire to see more of Moscow, you need only ask'. 

_Oh. Don't tell me that. Please don't tell me that._

Borgov sticks out his hand and Beth places her own hand gently in his.

'To whenever we meet again'

'To whenever we meet again' she replies.

Their hands remain joined and they gaze at the other scarily akin to that fleeting moment before their final match.

Borgov's eyes drop to her hand and he lifts it upwards, causing Beth to still, her mind filling with thoughts with what he is going to do next. With what he _could_ do next. But he then stops and releases his grip and the cold air races to her hands, attacking the places where his fingers had been. They both take a step back.

With that characteristic nod of his they then walk up the stairs to the hotel and with one final look at the other, they part in an electric filled silence. 


End file.
